Sannin
by gelfling
Summary: Various drabbles with Jiraiya and Orochimaru and I LIKE them here- young-Orochimaru is still a Spooky Prodigy instead of older of Full-Fledged Creepy Villian. Sannin team featured all around: shonen ai.
1. Just a Kid

**Just a Kid**

Disclaimer: Not mine, no money made, don't sue.

* * *

He was getting a bit sick of being Just a Kid. It was a phrase that was like an insult only it wasn't the sort of insult you could insult them back for because then they'd say something like, "Geez, grow up will you?"

Orochimaru told him that a lot, but a lot of _anything_ Orochimaru said was only good for unclogging drains. It was almost a consequence--if Orochimaru said it, then it was something he shouldn't listen to. Not that Tsunade was much better; _she_ had been the one to coin the stupid, "Just a kid" phrase the first time, like _she_ was any older or better. Tsunade was a fat cow with bad hair and, unfortunately, a punch like a steel bar. Not that her fist made her better, it just meant he got better at dodging each time he insulted her.

Orochimaru didn't even bother to hit him--he couldn't tell if Orochimaru thought he was _above_ squabbling or just wasn't needlessly violent: tough call. Most of Orochimaru's trade mark attacks were all pretty nasty and no-nonsense, but they weren't _needlessly_ violent. Tsunade's attacks usually were. Tsunade usually _was_ period. Of them all, Jiraiya considered his own attacks to be the cleverest, most humane, and all-around _shiniest_.

Okay, it was true, most of them were only good for escaping or peeping, but they were still _good_ attacks!

"Keep fooling around like that," Orochimaru told him, "And you'll be shot down the second you step foot onto the battleground."

Jiraiya made a 'che' noise, rolling his eyes as he lay against the narrow wooden bridge railing. Sensei was late again, but so was Tsunade, so it wasn't exactly a bad thing. It meant he was alone with Mr. Creepy longer than he wanted to be, but that couldn't be helped. At least he wasn't getting hit--just lectured.

"You'll care?"

"Not really," Orochimaru answered, leaning against the railing a decent distance away.

"I didn't think so. What's it matter anyway? As soon as we're strong enough to fight in the war we're all gonna die anyway."

"Very fatalistic of you. That's unusual."

"Nah, it's just sense. War's kill people, and I don't know about _you_," he threw Orochimaru a dark look. "But I'm a person. I like to wear pants and eat food and look at girls--god alone knows what _you_ are."

"Everyone dies. It doesn't have to be through war."

"Exactly--wait you're agreeing with me? You're _agreeing_ with--"

"I've no intention of dying."

"Hah! I thought so. Good luck getting around it."

"I plan to."

Jiraiya kicked his legs idly a few minutes longer, then threw Orochimaru another look. "So how exactly are you planning to get around it?"

Orochimaru only smiled.


	2. In Wait

**In Wait**  
Jiraiya/Orochimaru  
Rating: PG-13 for bad words  
Word Count: 480  
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money made, don't sue.

* * *

Jiraiya pulled his jacket closer around him; the silence seemed to make the cold colder than it was. Mist lit on his hair, touched his lips, and was starting to collect on his cigarette.

It was like a graveyard.

Icy gray waves lapped against the bone-yard beach, barely making a sound, just a continuous whisper that didn't feel alive at all. His eyes kept scanning the waves, idly wondering where their client was, what was taking so bloody _long_; he was freezing out here, and not from the cold.

He sucked on the thin cylinder between his lips for the heat and taste it brought, wishing he'd had time to get some actual coffee in him before getting up at this ungodly hour to wait. _Tsunade_ had gotten to sleep in; why not him? Just because she was a girl didn't make her any weaker, she could take this, and _he_ could've still been sleeping in the warm.

"That's disgusting."

Jiraiya grunted.

The tree bark looked a little like the gashes on a cheese grater, and not a pleasant thing to lean against, much less sit in. Still, Orochimaru looked perfectly comfortable in it; he probably had scales instead of skin covering his skinny body. Jiraiya didn't care--the boy was crummy company, but in the pre-dawn light he was better than nothing. Not as good as his cigarette, but better than nothing.

"As gross as the amount of gel you put in your hair?" Jiraiya asked, blowing smoke out his nose like a dragon.

"You're destroying your own body. I imagine it's hard to care for something so futile, but it's still a stupid idea."

Jiraiya ground his teeth. It was too early to fight. It was too early to be _alive_, so it was much too early to fight. He didn't say a word; didn't even spare him a glance.

"If you're trying to kill yourself," Orochimaru continued, because when the habit struck him he could listen to himself talk for _hours_. "There are cleaner methods."

"Shove it, ass hole," Jiraiya said, because he'd never really gotten a good grip on pacifism.

"If I were to destroy anything," Orochimaru kept on, with Jiraiya wondering if maybe Tsunade had drugged him to be extra annoying today. "I wouldn't even leave a trace."

"I notice I'm still in one piece."

"Don't worry," and it was _creepy_ when Orochimaru smiled, it made the skin on his arms crawl. He'd known the guy for a little over three years, and he _never_ stopped being creepy--it had only gotten worse as he got older. "When I kill you, no one will ever know."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Orochimaru turned his eyes--strange eyes, creepy eyes, light yellow and black--towards the fogged-up horizon again, searching. "You won't have to wait long."

"You really are a spooky son of a bitch, you know that?"


	3. The Devil You Know

**The Devil You Know**  
PG-13 for language  
Sarutobi's expert evaluation of his students, of the best and the brightest and ultimately the worst team in infamy: Team Sannin-ness.

Disclaimer: Not mine, no money made, don't sue.

* * *

Everyone had their own special tastes.

Sarutobi had to wonder if Jiraiya was secretly a masochist—if there was trouble, Jiraiya was in the center of it, making it worse, making it bigger, and unlike most tricksters would have _no_ escape plan that would completely save him for anything more than a few hours. Jiraiya could get away with plenty; he just couldn't get away with anything for very long.

The boy loved attention, loved fame; he didn't really care too much for praise or being singled out in a crowd (usually because it meant he was about to be attacked and strangled for whatever it was he did) he enjoyed being a rumor people talked about over coffee or in the newsstands, a name that everyone knew and knew nothing about. He liked the taste of fame; the flavor.

At times, Sarutobi wondered if it was healthy behavior. At the same time, he knew that none of his students, despite being the top of their class and uncannily intelligent (with the usual question mark of suspicion over Jiraiya) were exactly well-balanced.

Tsunade, bless her sweet little heart, was a high-born big breasted wench with more attitude than hair spray and a taste for violence that disturbed even her teacher; it was true she was the granddaughter of the original founders of their village, but even so…the girl was frightening, in her right. When it came to actual battles, all-out brawls, Tsunade was the one Sarutobi-sensei found himself relying on, more than his two boys—Jiraiya was a crowd pleaser who went quiet and withdrawn in too much attention, and would always pass off the work to someone else if he could or simply let it hang.

What was the boy's favorite…oh yes. SEP. An acronym Jiraiya had sprung on him as an excuse to why Tsunade had been left alone with three other_ older_ and not very friendly at _all_ ninja: It was Somebody Else's Problem. Not his. Besides, if he had been in the fight he'd wind up defending the other guys and making sure Tsunade left one of them with an unbroken jaw, not helping _her_, sheesh.

As for his final student…his final charge…

Orochimaru was slightly more forward than Jiraiya, but not much. He was slightly more reliable, but not by much. He was slightly less…cynical, even, than Jiraiya, but Sarutobi was an expert at reading people, and you didn't have to be an expert to know that the wheels were steadily turning behind those yellow eyes.

God alone knew what conclusions Orochimaru drew, what was his actual opinion on things…

Sarutobi slightly dreaded the day Orochimaru let the world know. It was always the quiet ones who got you, in the end. It was always, _always_, the quiet ones.

It ran down to a matter of tastes; the two devils he knew (mostly) and the devil he didn't (barely).

All and all, Sarutobi decided, if one of them didn't wind up burning down the village one night, he'd be happy. He'd be _incredibly _happy.

A/N: This is how I see the Sannin team; I like it. I think it's fun.


	4. Stop

**Stop**  
PG-13 for language and character death.  
The Sannin team after Tsunade's brother dies--not exactly weepy-angst, but not exactly dark either. The Sannin team went through the worst war in the _Naruto_ timeline, yet the team survived the war and stayed together for a very long time; wanted to go into the dark part of the war, and just how the team managed as none of them were very affectionate or nice, open people, yet they _did_ survive.  
Disclaimer: Not my characters or storyline.

Stop

He would've felt better if she had been crying. Crying, blubbering, sobbing—any of that, anything that looked _female_-like, if she'd been something small and shivery he could put his hands around like a baby bird and comforted her with a few pats on the back and carried her back to Sarutobi-sensei for her to be _his_ problem, and not Jiraiya's. He would've preferred that. It would've made him feel sane.

Tsunade kneeled before the squat stone tomb, her arms wrapped around her stomach and her forehead and knees pressed against the rock. She wasn't shaking. She wasn't crying. He wasn't even all that sure she was alive.

It was her grandfather's tomb. He'd been dead for years, but Tsunade had some old memories of him, a strange strong man with an odd sense of humor and wrinkly skin.

Jiraiya approached slowly, careful not to sneak up behind her, _extremely_ careful to keep some space between them, not to get too close…

"Tsunade? Tsunade, c'mon. Tsunade?"

She didn't hear him. She didn't twitch.

He even kept his voice low, respectful, and most importantly _non-offensive_. She wasn't swearing at him, wasn't punching him to bits which was a novelty, but he was careful not to do anything that would cause her to attack.

Most women, in grief, became helpless and weak—or at least that was his impression. They became a bit like cows, the trophy-wives and chattel-daughters, easy to lead here and there and needed to be held and protected. He'd seen that and been there and done that and given away his handkerchief more times than he cared to count to an anonymous grieving someone, but this was…_Tsunade._

It wasn't that he didn't like Tsunade—or that he didn't respect her. But she was very strong, very proud, and he knew she had loved her brother and he had never, _ever_, seen her fall or be beaten, had never known her to treat defeat as anything other than another challenge to attack tooth and nail. Whatever happened…whatever happened to them, when Orochimaru lost himself in his stupid old tatty scrolls or inside his greasy head and Jiraiya in his fantasy porn or beer, it was Tsunade who dragged them into the here and now. It was Tsunade who was level, forward. It was her—not them, most certainly not _him_, that lead the group when everything rained down bad.

Jiraiya had never lost family, had never lost anyone he really, really _cared_ about, and he had _never_ seen her like this…

He wasn't even going to try to touch her. That would get his arm ripped off in a very permanent literal way.

"Tsunade…Tsunade you can't _stay_ here…"

She didn't do anything. It was like he wasn't there. It _felt_ like he wasn't there; or like he shouldn't be there. She shouldn't be acting like this. Her hair hid her face, but she wasn't _doing_ anything. Didn't attack or yell or swear or scorn him, didn't even seem to be breathing…

Despite himself, Jiraiya began to panic.

_"You left her_ alone!_ She just lost a brother and you left her_ alone! _What kind of—"_

Sarutobi-sensei could've called them a million things. Monsters, teammates, ninjas, friends…except that Tsunade wasn't their friend. Orochimaru wasn't _his_ friend—they weren't friends. They only did what they had to. Right now, he had to bring Tsunade back to the village before she did…before anything…

Jiraiya swallowed awkwardly, paddling upstream without even a boat.

…Before anything_ stupid _happened.

"Tsunade?"

Orochimaru watched them patiently from the trail.

He wasn't going to help. He had told Jiraiya, before Jiraiya had gone down by himself, "She doesn't want to live. If she doesn't want to live, she won't."

Jiraiya hadn't even looked at him. Orochimaru wouldn't move from where he was. Tsunade wouldn't look at him. She wouldn't respond to anything. She wasn't moving but…her body hummed with energy, with invisible shudders. He wasn't about to touch her—she was a small bomb ready to go off, and he didn't want to die today, not by his teammate, not after surviving the invading ninja…

He tried shouting.

"Tsunade! Enough! Get up damn it _now's not the time_! Fuck! You're a _warrior_ get--"

She was looking at him. He hadn't seen her move, but she was looking at him.

Jiraiya had seen a lot of things, which was why he drank himself into a dull stupor the nights he wasn't able to fall asleep from sheer exhaustion. He'd seen a lot of things, numbed himself over systematically, to the point where he could laugh with the dead and steal their food because he had a sudden attack of the munchies without a twinge of guilt. It was all one in the same to him and god knew that_ they_ didn't mind; they were dead, they weren't going to miss some snacks. He'd never lost anyone he loved because he had never _loved_ anyone—he had lost friends, people he liked and maybe could've loved but he'd never actually _done_ it and she knew that and they had left her alone. Because he hadn't known what to do, and she had wanted to be alone and what did _he_ know about grief? She knew they were only there by order.

She was looking at him.

Everything he said felt invasive, traitorous. He didn't belong here, with her, and he knew it and she knew it but it wasn't safe to leave her on her own, out here in the open where anything could happen after she'd just lost her…

She was looking at him. She stood, very slowly.

Jiraiya scrambled backwards hurriedly, trying to put space between them, knowing if she really went for his throat it wouldn't matter if he started running dead flat now; she'd still get him.

He didn't belong there. This was hers. He didn't belong there and the penalty for intruding had never been kind…

"You're a warrior. You're a ninja you have an obligation—"

He didn't see her move again, but there was a grim, bloody smile thrashing for air on her lips. Her eyes were red, but her face was dry.

They both knew he didn't believe in that 'obligation crap'. Or that ninja were only tools, and not people. Or that warriors should be emotionally dead to other people, despite the fact it worked better that way. He was lying and she knew it all she did was give that grim little smile.

_I lost my brother today._

Who are you to tell me what to do?

What** right**_ do you have to command me?_

I lost my brother today.

Why hasn't the world fallen silent? My brother is dead. Why hasn't the world stopped? My brother is dead.

My brother is dead.

Who are you to care?

Jiraiya had always been good at reading people—it was how he stayed alive. He didn't have Tsunade's strength or ruthlessness, or Orochimaru's cunning and freakish adaptations. Jiraiya always felt he was the only sane, human one on a team of freaks, and it was all he could do to stay alive.

Jiraiya opened his mouth. He shut it again.

She watched him, waiting for him to fail so she could look away and forget about him.

For a second, he considered looking towards Orochimaru, a thin dark figure away on the trail and signaling for help. He discarded the idea slower than he wanted to admit.

He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to deal with her. He'd never lost anyone in his life—never lost anything he could cry over. He had never had much to begin with and hadn't it been _him_ who had mocked her for her pride, her arrogance? Especially when she had looked down her snotty nose at him because she was better at something and he wasn't? He had never taken crap from anyone; he wasn't about to take it from _her_. What did a spoiled pet know about real life anyway?

_"I don't care** who's** granddaughter you are—you shit and stink and you'll **die** just like the rest of us! Your family's only human—hey! Let go of my hair! Let go of my—**OW**! Shit! Ow—sensei! Sen—OW!"  
_  
He opened his mouth, and took a few steps closer, well into her striking range. It wouldn't impress her into _not_ attacking; bravado never did. But he did it anyway.

She only watched him. Even getting beat up was better than the way she was watching him. Her eyes were…old. Old, and aching.

He'd only seen those eyes in the few grandma's and grandpa's they had shuffling around the place like old paper—creaky voices and sad depressing _tragic_ stories that always put him to sleep or made him gag until he could run away but she…

She was only fourteen, just like he was.  
_  
"This war'll kill us." Jiraiya had told Sarutobi-sensei, in a rare moment of honesty and open dread. "This war'll kill us…and I'm still a virgin. Remember to put that on my tomb—died a** virgin**, because his stupid sensei wouldn't let him go to the whore-houses on his days off."_

He'd been an idiot. He'd been an idiot because he'd been right, and he'd been _stupid_ enough to say it where everyone could hear because he thought he was doing something _righteous._

"I'm sorry," and even as he said it he knew the words were trite, cliché. Stupid. Everyone said that—it was a stupid phrase, it was the kind of phrase you said after you accidentally smacked someone while opening a door, not after you violated the fragile painful privacy of someone else's grief because of a stupid order when they've lost the only remaining…

She didn't move.

"Please."

Nothing.

"Please?" his voice was higher pitched the second time he begged.

She was arrogant because her family was old and she was vain because she was smarter and stronger (and prettier) than he was; he was arrogant because he liked being annoying and pissing people off. She had bent his wrists the wrong way, close to the point of breaking in one of those childish, playground games where he had to beg for mercy to make the pain stop. He never begged her though; or, when he did beg her because there was no one around to save him, he always slipped a dead fish or bit of wet cold mud between her cleavage or in her panties when he could manage it then ran like hell. He never meant it, when he said, 'mercy.' He only said it to gain more time.

"Tsunade…"

She stared at him, dead to the world.

He opened his mouth again, ready to beg again, ready to be sincere and honest and give her anything if she would just_ come back_ with them. Her eyes half-closed and she shook her head lightly. He was able to breathe again.

'Go,' she mouthed at him silently. Her jaw was stiff, taut.

Jiraiya hesitated, and then shook his head.

She mouthed words again, her voice dead and face stiff and dry, movements subtle and hard to read, and she had to repeat herself before he could understand her.

'Where I can't see you.'

He nodded, started to shuffle away gratefully, and added at the last minute, "But only until sunset."

She didn't respond. She didn't even turn around to acknowledge him.

Orochimaru followed him into the trees without question, still looking a bit bored with proceedings but patiently quiet. He watched Tsunade with slight interest, but Jiraiya knew that if things went dooky-shaped it would have to be _him_ running out there to save her or stop her from doing something…stupid, and hope he wasn't killed in the process. Orochimaru wouldn't do a thing to help.  
_  
If she doesn't want to live, she won't.  
I've no intention of dying_.

They waited.

Tsunade leaned against the side of the tomb, staring out at nothing. It was hours. She didn't move, didn't cry, didn't scream or do anything Jiraiya had always associated with women grieving. Or even Tsunade. Or just grief. Even the old men, the old fighters, looked sad when their comrades fell, went grim and soft and quiet, or got shitting-pissed and went berserker and killed and killed and killed until _they_ got killed or were all worn out in the end.

He'd never seen anyone just…stand there. Frozen. Frozen and dead to the world.

Afternoon crept to a close. The sun fell. The stars came out, gradually.

Tsunade still hadn't moved. Jiraiya ached, squirmed, but didn't interfere. Orochimaru got bored, found a comfortable spot, and curled up to sleep.

It was several hours before dawn. Tsunade left without a word to them, without shaking herself awake, moving only on automatic. Jiraiya slapped Orochimaru's arm and chased after her, flanking her on one side.

If she noticed him, she didn't say a word.

Jiraiya had nearly killed Orochimaru, the morning after they'd returned in her wake. Tsunade had gone to her family's estate, and in a surprising show of solidarity Jiraiya and Orochimaru had both returned together to the Academy dorms where less-politically powerful soldiers slept. It was cheaper than providing them with individual apartments and supplies, and more convenient to move them out. It was supposed to bring them closer together as a team, living in close proximity to each other, but it only made Jiraiya wish he were on another team. Or that he could go back to his own house.

"You surprised me," Orochimaru remarked as they went in. "I didn't think you would stay with her."

"I'm her teammate," Jiraiya said, repeating what Sarutobi-sensei had told him _over_ and _over_ again, until he died from sheer boredom. "It was an order."

"It was an order," Orochimaru agreed. "It wasn't because you cared for her. We're the last of our class still alive. Selfishness makes us strong."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"An enemy loves a soldier ready to die for a cause—they have the same goal in mind. Men ready to die for glory always die; her brother was a fool. He would've died sooner or later anyway."

"Shut up." He was too tired to do more. He was too tired to think.

"You would never die for me," Orochimaru gave him a sidelong glance, sinister yellow eyes candid and helpful. "I would never die for you. Or her. We defend each other because it gets the job done—because it was an _order_. We aren't ready to die for anything, so we haven't died. We aren't ready."

"You're a bastard." Weak, he knew, but he meant every syllable.

"I'm right," Orochimaru corrected. "We've survived this long because we're selfish, while the others die stupidly. No one remembers their names; in a hundred years, no one remembers who they were or why they died. That's glory? Honor? That's worth dying for?"

"Drop dead."

"No."

"Go away!"

"We're going to the same place," Orochimaru pointed out.

Jiraiya almost slapped him. Almost. He was taller than Orochimaru—bigger. Orochimaru had a fragile bone structure and skinny pale body. His dark hair hung limply over his narrow face, his robe over his bony shoulders.

He wanted to hit him. Mostly out of frustration—it'd been a long night, a longer day, and then an even_ longer_ night and he still hadn't slept or even rested.

It wasn't too much because he disagreed; there was a trick to surviving, it was a skill you could learn. If you rushed into danger, full of heroic intention, you would be very brave and noble, and very dead rather quickly, because a pure heart wouldn't protect you from anything. Between the noble and the coward, Jiraiya always picked the role with the best chances of surviving. It was technically treason; as a ninja, he was supposed to be willing to give his life, even _eager_ to give _everything_, to complete the mission. With the amount of missions he'd shirked or only half-completed, he should have had his rank, his head protector revoked a long time ago. He rather enjoyed the solitary confinement; it meant he could nap undisturbed by anyone for _days_. If people were stupid enough to call him a coward for _that_, he couldn't care less about what they thought.

But the village was low on resources, on ninja, and the raging war showed no signs of slowing or becoming anything resembling humane—besides, Jiraiya and his team had a reputation for surviving, and almost always completing their tasks, despite their youth. His failings were overlooked. He did have his pride, a way; if it were possible, he completed the mission. If it were suicide, he didn't.

But his…the way she'd looked.

The way the body had been torn apart—unrecognizable. Young. So damn _young_ and tiny. There hadn't been enough body to destroy; it was too small.

The way she'd looked at him. The silence. Grief.

Orochimaru didn't know _shit_. Jiraiya would admit he didn't know anything either, but he'd never be arrogant enough to_ judge._

"Fuck you," Jiraiya spat. "I hope they get _you_ next."

"You're more likely."

"_I'm_ getting drunk, stick. Fuck this all…"

"And that'll save you?" Orochimaru had asked Jiraiya's retreating back. "Alcohol? Escapism?"

"_Bitch_," Jiraiya hissed over his shoulder.

He was the sane one. He didn't care what anyone else said; _he _was the sane one.


	5. Story Teller

**Story Teller**  
Jiraiya/Orochimaru  
PG-13 for language and shonen-ai  
Going into Orochimaru's fascination with death; one of the many reasons he twisted and turned into something unrecognizable, and Jiraiya because Jiraiya's _fun_ and snappy and strangely smart. All bits of morbid-strange stories derived from mythology and messed around by me, standard disclaimer applies. **Dark**--morbidly dark. Yet...slightly sexy too.

**Story Teller**

Orochimaru always slept on his back, his hands by his sides, in case he was attacked. Jiraiya understood the logic behind that; he did the same thing too when it wasn't too cold or he was in enemy territory, but Orochimaru did it all the time.

He had asked him once, "What, did you get used to sleeping that? Get comfy?"

"No," Orochimaru had said flatly, with the same mechanical disinterest. "It's to defend myself."

"You expect to be attacked this close to Konoha? We were _invited_ here—they're not gonna hurt us. What about me?"

Orochimaru had only looked at him. That withering, almost-pitying mocking look he'd perfected. Then he'd leaned back and closed his eyes. Jiraiya had muttered and given him a dark look, curling into a tight ball.

Tonight, _this_ night, he'd put off going to bed as long as possible, reading porn on the roof with his treasured girly magazines until it became too cold to stay out. The last thing he wanted to be was in the same room with Orochimaru; he couldn't quite picture going to _sleep_ in the same room. He'd begged Sarutobi-sensei for another room, but all he had gotten was a chilly, hurt look.

"He's your _teammate_, Jiraiya."

"He's insane too—and you've seen his teeth! I'm not—"

"No."

"But sensei—"

"_No_. Go. He's…he's your teammate, Jiraiya. We stand together."

Jiraiya had pouted, "Standing together's fine—I've got my hands free. It's sleeping in the same room with the bastard I don't like."

Every team had a structure, a strategy. As with most teams, the two males were nearly polar opposites of one another, with Tsunade as the medium between, as most females were. Tsunade also served as the team leader, which most girls were not. As for strategy, Jiraiya had a natural flair for grandstanding, for distracting, Tsunade went after the mission objective, whatever it was, and Orochimaru provided support from the shadows, obliquely right up to the point where someone's throat was torn out, rarely out in the open. Orochimaru could _fight_ if he had to if the initial venoms or strike were inefficient, but he wasn't used to it. Jiraiya himself was used to running away, stalling, or creating traps—Tsunade was the actual expert on hand-to-hand combat, mostly because of her extensive knowledge of anatomy and chakra redirection, similar to the Hyuuga fighting style, though not as accurate.

Jiraiya was used to being the one held at knifepoint; he was usually the one cut or stabbed, out of the three of them. Tsunade, when she was really enraged, could and _had_ taken two shuriken to an arm and kunai blade in her shoulder and she'd kept on _going_, wrecking havoc and terror, an unstoppable force of nature and pain. Jiraiya secretly believed she fed herself testosterone in huge doses. He was also _extremely_ secretly grateful for it, except when he pissed her off and she came after _him_, but at least she pulled her punches somewhat…

That, of course, had been before she had lost her brother.

She kept going, kept fighting and working in their unit, but she wasn't the same. It was hard to pinpoint what was different, what had changed; she wasn't exactly _sadder_, because nothing kept Tsunade down for long, and not exactly _angrier_, but she was…different. Very different.

Jiraiya put it off as long as he could. He didn't want to go inside. Who would know if he didn't? Sarutobi-sensei? What could he do? Lecture him? Again? So what?

A part of him _treasured_ the wonderful little moment earlier that day, when Orochimaru had nearly been killed. A part of him photographed that expression of absolute _fear_ in those damn cold poisonous eyes that seemed too big for his face, the fingers shaking, covered with Orochimaru's own blood. He hadn't screamed, though, even when he'd been held helpless miles above the earth in something that resembled a hawk, helpless and at another _equally_ sadistic creature's mercy.

_That's the kinda karma_, Jiraiya had thought to himself, _that__ hurts like a bitch._

A snake and hawk--a part of him laughed at the image and how very _accurate_ it turned out to be; Orochimaru must be closer linked to his animal biology than Jiraiya had realized. Orochimaru normally didn't have a problem with heights, but he'd damn near frozen _up_! It had been classic! He was pretty damn sure Orochimaru had caught his smug little smile, even if he was pretty sure only Tsunade had heard his grim laugh.

Tsunade hadn't laughed. She hadn't smiled. Jiraiya had distracted the stone ninja's attention by making himself the prime target, rearranging the flow of chakra that kept the clay in the air with written spells and seals and blowing the hawk-like contraption into bits. Tsunade had been the one to break the enemy ninja's spine with a flick of her fingers on the right spot. Tsunade had also been the one to approach Orochimaru, shivering and eyes vacant, morbidly engrossed with his own blood and the wound in his stomach and had slapped him hard enough to knock him off his feet. Jiraiya had winced in sympathy, but not too much—she'd hit him_ plenty_ harder. Besides, it was only a little cut; it wouldn't kill him.

_What a_ pansy, Jiraiya had thought to himself. _Sheesh__, it's only blood. Trust the dark philosophical bastard to be the one to fall apart at the sight of his own blood; what a _wimp.

Jiraiya dallied.

He didn't want to be anywhere _near_ Orochimaru. He'd come back all right…at least he hadn't tried to pick a fight with Tsunade after she'd slapped him awake, proving that while Orochimaru was gibbering a bit he wasn't _stupid._ Rattled, but not suicidal.

Jiraiya took his time, but eventually, he went back inside the inn, senses on high, and slowly, gradually, reluctantly, made his way to the room near the back that had been given to Orochimaru and Jiraiya. He never really understood why the younger males on the team always had to share...the girls didn't! Why couldn't he have been put on an all-girl team? He would've liked that…

Jiraiya, with a heavy heart-felt sigh, slid the door open slowly, carefully standing to the side and checking the sides and ceiling before entering cautiously. Orochimaru was on his own bed, back pressed against the wall and sheets hiding his skinny body, eyes wide and even from the_ door_ Jiraiya could hear the fast, heavy breathing.  
_  
Don't go in.  
You're teammates.  
You would never die for me. I would never die for you. Or her.  
I've no intention of dying.  
Pansy.  
Don't go in._

Jiraiya hesitated, and then slid the door shut behind him slowly; ready to skedaddle the second Orochimaru twitched. Fuzzy darkness drowned the room, dust bunnies hopping in front of Jiraiya's feet as he sidled over to his own bed as slowly and cautiously as possible, Orochimaru a gray blurry stick figure with two huge yellow eyes in the dark. Two _hungry_ yellow eyes in the dark, eyes that didn't look remotely human in the best of times, and didn't look even very earthly now.

_  
No sudden movements._ That was the watch-word. Jiraiya's fingers touched the edge of his bed, his attention still on Orochimaru. _No sudden movements and make Sarutobi-sensei's life a living _hell_ for making me do this shit… _

Orochimaru's breathing shifted when he sat down uneasily, and removed his sandals, never taking his eyes off him; it eased, relaxed somewhat. The wide yellow eyes still ate him, animal eyes, and he was going to make Sarutobi-sensei's life _hell_ for making him sleep in the same room as a fucking _snake_…

He settled down. He stared at Orochimaru. Orochimaru stared at him. They were fourteen. He waited. He began to tap his foot irritably.

"I…know you're upset, but it was only _blood_ okay, stop being _stupid_. It was just blood! Okay? Now close your eyes—close. Close your eyes. I'm not going to sleep with you _looking_—"

"I don't want to die."

"I know," Jiraiya replied. "Me neither, now go to—"

"I don't want to die. I can't die. I don't want to die. I don't—"

"No _one_ wants to," Jiraiya said. "Now go to sleep."

"--want to die. I can't die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I can't. I don't want to die. I don't want to--"

"Orochimaru…"

"—can't die. I don't want to—"

Jiraiya stood, and crossed the distance between the two beds, ready and willing to slap the crap out of Orochimaru again like Tsunade had because that seemed to work and it looked plenty fun too, but as he got closer Orochimaru's voice died slowly decibel by decibel, until it was only his lips moving near-silently, the wide yellow eyes staring up at him through limp black hair.

Jiraiya gave him a dry, tired look. He thought about hitting him. Orochimaru blinked, lightening fast, knuckles white from holding the sheets and skin grayer than normal.

Jiraiya sat down.  
_  
I hate myself sometimes._

"…don't want to—"

"You're not going to die, dummy."

"Everyone dies from the second you're born to now to never from the second you're incubated and the gestation begins even before you learn to breathe you're dying second by second and nothing stops nothing ever stops it it's aging and aging and everything dies and no one remembers and I don't want to—"

Orochimaru's eyes were _gigantic_ liquid yellow pools, hypnotic, his voice never wavering from the near-hysterical rhythmic monotone and it was a second too late that he saw Orochimaru's teeth. Normally they were flat, human things, but when he was fighting or killing, his cheeks got shallower and his teeth longer and skinnier just like a viper's. Fatalistic fear poured off him in dark cold sheets, drenching Jiraiya. The air even _felt_ colder, being this close to him.  
_  
Oh shit_.

"You're not _going_ to—"

Jiraiya cut off his own cry, face contorting through pain and outrage to settle a flurry of mental curses. He hissed between his teeth, making _no sudden movements_, his wrists locked in a vise-like grip of contracting bone and cold, freezing skin so smooth it felt slimy. Orochimaru was shivering. No sudden movements. Right. It felt like his wrists were going to snap—more threatening than painful, but pretty damn painful all the same. No sudden movements. Never mind the fact that teeth over an inch long were lodged in his shoulder, probably pumping poison through his veins and slowly killing him because _Sarutobi__-sensei thought they should stick together!_ Hell! It was just a _little_ blood! That was all! Sure Orochimaru had been helpless for the first time since he could hold a knife, but it was only a _little_ blood!

Muffled against his skin was a steady mantra. Jiraiya was marginally grateful he didn't have to listen to the whining anymore, just get his guts poisoned sick and dead.

"You aren't going to die. You're not. You aren't going to die—you're going to live an incredibly long time, a really long time. All right? You're alive now—you survived. You're gonna survive worse, you're gonna survive better, and you're not gonna die. Now…let go of my shoulder."

"Hey. Hey. My shoulder. Aching. Shoulder?"

Jiraiya sighed. He lowered his voice.

"Stop being _stupid_—we are _gods_ among men. We can control the weather, we can control people's minds, shadows, we can switch bodies; what is death to _us_? What's time? The founders of our village lived to be _old_, old men, and they could've lived _longer_ if they had wanted, they could've kept their youth. We have magic…we have power. If we don't want to die we don't _have_ to."

Against him, he thought he heard Orochimaru scoff. Good. At least he wasn't talking to himself and the wall again.

"We could be—if it weren't for the stupid wars and stupid rules we could be. It's their fault; it's the stupid war's fault we're in this mess at all! We can summon monsters. We can kill demons, or seal them, and _they're_ immortal. There's a million things we can do, and if it weren't for the bloody stupid wars and infractions and fighting—oh yeah, and we didn't have to _eat_ and earn money—we could really _do_ something. You know. If the clans would stop fighting like cats in a sack for a couple years and pooled all their power…what couldn't we do?"

The shivering was easing out of Orochimaru's body. Or, if not easing, then at least slowing down. His wrists still hurt though—his fingers felt numb. No hand seals from him, nope-nope.

"Jubei-sama of our art did _amazing_ things, and no one's been able to come close to what he accomplished because of all the stupid fighting. People _remember_ the great ones. Not everyone dies…the great ones never die. People remember their names for years. For as long as your name is spoken, you aren't dead. For as long as people remember the great things you did, you aren't weak. People _remember_. Power leaves it mark, and as long as people speak your name you will never die…"

The teeth were easing out of _his_ body. Unfortunately, he couldn't think of any else to say to ease them out. Forcing them out was not an option—Orochimaru was smaller than him, but not physically weaker. And he had his teeth sunk into Jiraiya's flesh, which was 9/10ths of the advantage. He grabbled.

"It doesn't have to be this way. You're alive—you can still_ do_ stuff. It's the dead who can't do anything, but right now you're alive."

Jiraiya waited.

"Now get your teeth out of my shoulder. Okay? It's starting to hurt."

Thin yet _strong_ teeth slid out of his body, but his hands weren't released (he couldn't break the grip and couldn't move his hands enough to make the proper seals) and Orochimaru didn't move; not leaning against him, not touching him, but still so damn close…a part of Jiraiya cringed. Icky. Very, very icky, to be this close to him…

He was going to _kill_ Sarutobi-sensei. Or at least make him hurt.

"You're _lying_…" Orochimaru stated quietly, wheezing slightly and hissing a lot, when he was able to speak again. His teeth still chattered, which sounded a bit odd with fangs. "You're _always_ lying…"

"No I'm not—it hasn't happened yet. I need something to be true in order to lie, and the future isn't true yet so it's not lying. The living have power, and power changes the rules; even the rules about dying. We're alive."

"…didn't know you were power-hungry. Or that you thought like this…"

"I'm not power-hungry; it's just sense. And I'm a secret genius in disguise—I'm learning the wisdom of the ages between a million women's beautiful thighs, of course I'm a genius."

Jiraiya laughed softly. Orochimaru didn't. He was still shaking. Jiraiya grimaced.

"It doesn't _have_ to be this way. We shouldn't _have_ to live in fear."

Jiraiya waited, feeling a little sick for revealing so _much_ of himself, of his dreams, of one day not having to fight and kill people he didn't even know _every single month_, of not worrying people who didn't know _anything_ about him were going to kill him because someone else with lots of money or power or both decided the world would be more _convenient_ without him in it. Or just killed him because they happened to catch sight of him. Jiraiya dreamed of a day were people didn't try to kill him just because he was alive and on another _team_—he'd spied on the other villages before, mingled with them during the fragile truces when both (or all four) sides were scrambling to rearm themselves, and had found his enemies weren't really bad people. Not as nice as _his_ team, not as clean or normal, but not _bad_ people. Just different.

It was something he couldn't tell Tsunade, after what she had lost in the war, because it sounded so _futile_. So stupid. It was something he had _never_ wanted to tell Orochimaru, because he was slimy bastard who enjoyed the misery of other people, enjoyed breaking them apart. Jiraiya had worked good and hard on constructing the perfect reputation: the somewhat useless trickster, sarcastic, cynical, unreliable, and voyeuristic. He hadn't told Sarutobi-sensei, because Jiraiya had a feeling he _knew_; he was always bailing Jiraiya out of trouble when he really, really needed it. He had a feeling he knew.

It shouldn't have to be this way. The war shouldn't exist. It was wrong. Living like this, training the kiddies how to rupture the jugular and how to read at the same time shouldn't have to _be_.

Telling Orochimaru was a mistake. It would be years before he understood why he'd done it, why he'd _really_ done it, and not why he thought he had.

"It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. I don't want to die. Human nature demands blood," Orochimaru was still shivering. He never raised his voice above whisper, never steadied the erratic serpentine hiss on the words. "Demands sacrifice. We're monsters and I hate us all…"

Jiraiya said nothing.

"I don't want to die."

He was a kid who was still, quite regrettably, a virgin, yet also a kid with a stronger sense of conscience than loyalty. He was a kid who wasn't allowed to pay willing, very talented and friendly women to do obscene and wonderful things to him, yet he was paid to kill people—sometimes women, and eventually girls his own age or younger once management was sure he wouldn't revolt—for being born in the wrong place in the wrong time by the wrong person, or simply because they married or didn't marry someone else. He was paid to spy on people, invade their lives in every fashion and aspect possible. He was paid to rescue princesses and to kill boys he didn't hate or even dislike, and because he was a ninja and therefore 'only a tool' as shinobi doctrine decreed, that made everything _all right_. No one would ever take a sword to court for being a weapon; a hammer would never be denied entrance into Heaven for hitting nails. They were only tools.

"I don't _want_ to die."

According to ninja doctrine, they were only tools, and not responsible. It was the people who _hired_ them who were responsible, who would be denied Heaven, and from the sidelines Jiraiya wished, wished so very _hard_ that that was true, because people did terrible things to each other, and he wasn't sure he wanted to associated with a team like _that_ if there was another option.

"I can't…"

Tsunade had the same conscience qualms, but like Jiraiya, she hoped for something better. Before she lost her brother, she had hoped for something better. He wasn't sure what she thought now, but he knew she had.

His fingers tingled unpleasantly, starved for fresh blood and air. His wrists hurt like hell.

"I can't die. I can't die. I can't…"

Orochimaru was slowly going into hysterics. He was dragging himself into it, forcing himself into it more through uncontrollable horrified fascination than actual fear. Orochimaru was naturally obsessive, naturally strange, and now that a new idea had gotten into his head that he _could_ die, that everything could just _end_ for him in a single unforeseen second, he couldn't let the thought go.

He was going to die. Everything he had read, learned, mastered, accomplished, or planned, might never reach fruition. He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

His breathing hitched, quickened, his body contracting in every possible way in a god-given serpentine reflex, coiling every muscle and tightening every joint, everything readying for the single _crucial_ second when the moment came to strike. His hands tightened, until he could feel Jiraiya's pulse strong and steady against his fingers, his head almost touching Jiraiya's shoulder. He couldn't smell his fear though—not with his tongue, not with his nose. He couldn't smell his fear.

There were two ways to distract a snake. One was to beat them stupid with a heavy shovel. Jiraiya didn't have a shovel on him handy, though.

Jiraiya closed his eyes. He started talking, voice pitched lower than the cool bottoms of gentle streams and softer than flannel, because words were something that didn't leave any scars you could see.

"Some people say that men gave birth to the monsters. That there was an old, evil man who lived high on the mountain and he was so evil that the birds died when they flew over him. The earth was dead on the mountain, and any kind of animal that came close to it started frothing at the mouth, like rabies, before dying. I'm not sure what he did, exactly, but the old story said he'd killed his family and eaten them, because people say you lived on through your kids. Well, he thought it'd be better if he lived on with his kids _inside_ of him, but he kept his wife alive, tied up inside the house, so he could rape her and get more kids for him to eat."

"One day his wife was too old to have kids, and she died. He started to go hungry, so he tried to go looking for a girl to be his wife, only he couldn't find one, so he died too. When he died, a monster ripped out of his body, wet with his blood. It was the flesh of all his kids, living inside him for years, and it all came out at once, it one big 'gloop'. And that was the first monster."

Jiraiya waited for a response. Usually, after one his stories, X-rated or not, Orochimaru would throw a dry, loathing look in his direction, or say something sharp and scathing, or (worst of all) ask when Jiraiya had been within 2 feet of a woman who hadn't spit on him.

Nothing came. The grip on his wrists didn't ever relax.

"Okay, I made that up, but you get the point."

"I don't want to die."

"I know," Jiraiya replied as patiently and soothingly as possible. "You told me. Many times. I don't want to die either. Did you poison me? When you bit me?"

There was silence, interspersed only with the shaky, raspy breaths. Orochimaru wasn't hysterical anymore, though. Jiraiya considered that a victory. Kind of. Provided he lived through this. Or was able to run to Tsunade and get an antidote in time. Orochimaru wasn't shivering. His hands were still sweaty, silky-smooth, chilly as steel around his wrists.

"Orochimaru?"

"…What if I did?"

"I'd run to Tsunade screaming for help," Jiraiya replied matter-of-fact with rather disarming honesty. "And beg for her help, so on, yadda-yadda, whatever. Did you?"

"…Why would I let you go?"

_Ah, _thought Jiraiya._ Good point. After all, why would he poison me if he didn't want me dead? Besides the fact that he was panicking, I mean. And being a wuss.  
_  
"Because you'd be bleeding profusely out your side after I stab you," Jiraiya answered flatly. "You're not the only one who can kill, you know."

Orochimaru was still breathing heavy, but at least his body had stopped contracting. Minute shivers still racked his body; small not because the stress on him was any less, but small because of the angry contractions his mind was forcing on his body.

When he spoke, his voice sounded wet--bloody. Not…weak, exactly, but on the verge. On the verge of _what_, Jiraiya wasn't sure, but definitely on the verge.

"Why aren't you afraid of me? Why aren't you afraid of dying? Why aren't you afraid? Why have you lived this long? Why? Why? Why aren't you afraid of me? Why aren't you afraid? Why aren't--"

Jiraiya remembered seeing a tattoo once, on a guy's shoulder, of a snake eating its own tail.

A part of him thought this was not the time to be worried about Orochimaru. He could be poisoned. And he had lost feeling in his fingers, and was losing it up his arms. His elbows ached from being twisted. Another part of him realized that if he didn't take care of Orochimaru, he couldn't take care of himself.

_Because we're on the same fucking team…_

He interrupted, "The desert tribes believe that the dead go to garden without end, without death, without hunger. Live life by your own terms, in your own right, and when you reach the garden you will never feel pain or grief, and the world is a distant thing, a thing that happened and now is gone. Butterflies swarm in the garden and turn into beautiful women that sing songs no one remembers."

"—can't die. You can't understand—"

"The monarch butterflies live for years of their own time half-dead in a tomb of their own making, in their own garden, and they wake _up_ out of it. Death is not a permanent thing. In Yakasuta a woman locked her son inside a room and unleashed an army of butterflies inside, and months later when the police went to look for him he wasn't there. The butterflies littered the bed like flowers on a marital bed, like in the houses of the nobles before a woman gives up her own life to live in the shadow of her husband, a half-dead creature in her own right."

"—never…can't you…I don't want to…"

"The snow tribes of the far north never kill the ravens that haunt the trees, because the ravens foretell a death, or a slaughter of a tribe. The ravens know, the death birds. There is a parliament of ravens and murder of crows and gaggle of geese and the north tribes use the feathers to differentiate between clans. When the world ends for them a wolf will swallow the moon, destroying the night and the sun will never rise again, locking the world in a mausoleum of darkness. The clans will avenge their families for grievances stretching back a million years since the first man walked out of the River Falls wearing nothing and killed the first bear and took it's skin as his own, marking man's birthright as killer and conqueror of the natural world, the first and final rapist."

Orochimaru's words were too gabbled to be understood, too quiet to be heard.

Jiraiya pulled his own heartbeat under control, his neck aching from the thin shallow twin impalements, his hands prickling over painfully as the pressure was gradually released from his wrists. He didn't feel poisoned—still clear headed, still fever-less. He'd been poisoned enough to know. He was tired, which was why he didn't mind Orochimaru's forehead touching his shoulder, close to where he bit down hard; his skin was clammy with cold sweat, slightly slimy and smooth like raw meat.

There were two ways to distract a snake.

"Why aren't you afraid of me? You don't like me. You don't trust me. Why aren't you afraid?"

"Because you're not stupid," Jiraiya said quietly without planning his words ahead of time as he was used to doing, watching others watch him speak, because Orochimaru was good at spotting where he was lying. "And I'm more useful to you alive than dead. Because I know I'm not as weak as I act, or as you assume. Because since I know how to live, I'm not afraid of dying."

"You call your life_ worthwhile_?"

He hated him. He hated Orochimaru. He hated him for judging without right, for having all the natural gratitude of an alligator, of goddamned _snake_, and for being so fucking _accurate._

"No," Jiraiya admitted without hesitation, stabbing himself before Orochimaru could, "But I know how to make it worthwhile. If it weren't…if I were able to. If I wanted to try. I know how. I know what makes a life worthwhile."

"How can you believe in what doesn't exist?"

"With effort," Jiraiya answered with disarming honesty. Orochimaru shivered, shuddered, thin cold hands spasming and loosening over his own. Jiraiya didn't move.

"With effort, and sometimes with denial when I can't think of anything better, when effort won't cut it and I can't see a way out or around or through. Because I can't accept that this hell is all there is for us. I can't control where my life ends—I can put it off, and I'll keep on putting it off to the last minute, but I'll be _damned_ if I don't control my own damn destiny!"

Jiraiya's eyes narrowed suddenly, his bark turning sharp, "You got that?"

Orochimaru shuddered again, thin bones weak looking in the cobalt cold darkness. His hands never let go, but they'd gone from the bony death-grip to a fleshier, softer grip, slippery with cold sweat. Not that Orochimaru was ever warm; his body had been designed to be nearly cold-blooded, as animalistic as possible while still being human. His breathing still wavered, rising and falling unsteadily.

Jiraiya slipped his hands out and switched positions seamlessly, his own hands lightly holding Orochimaru's wrists that slithered in his grasp to press their fingertips against his skin again. But it wasn't painful. Orochimaru was cold and slimy and Jiraiya was warm and scratchy with calluses and scars, but it wasn't painful.

"Why are you doing this? You don't like me."

Still working on automatic, navigating and enchanting the monster for as long as he could, Jiraiya almost gave a straight answer and bit his own tongue to stop himself. Orochimaru could tell when he was lying, and therefore could tell when he was telling the truth, and there still some things Jiriaya didn't even want _Jiraiya_ to know about himself, much less for Orochimaru to know.

There was a subtle, yet distinct shift in the atmosphere. He'd been found out. Orochimaru was staring up at his profile, back still curled, reading every contraction of his irises and twitch of his jaw, and probably misinterpreting plenty but not enough to be wrong.

"Unless you are afraid of me," Orochimaru breathed softly.

He wasn't as tightly wound as he had been—Jiraiya had managed to gradually walk him out of that obsession and distract him enough with something new and equally morbid (and therefore engaging) to cause Orochimaru to relax, to unwind, but there was plenty of him still coiled to spring.

Jiraiya gave him a sour look, "Don't kid yourself. I never would've come in here, much less tried anything, if that were it. Now did you poison me or what?"

From an objective point of view, Orochimaru's next logical conclusion was rather sensible. From a personal point of view, example given the point of view of Jiraiya who'd known the cold slimy bastard for longer than he ever wanted to against his will, who couldn't quite stand to be alone with him, or even from the point of view of _Orochimaru_, who had always viewed Jiraiya as a large type of noisy gluttonous rodent with slightly less intelligence than a chair and a surprising, if unremarkable, tendency towards survival, the logical conclusion was absurd.

From the point of view of them _both_, the yet unnoted but substantial length of willing physical contact between them, intimacy of psyche, and rather specifically the reptilian attraction to warm, dark spaces and the story teller's attraction to a hungry audience that _had_ allowed Orochimaru's temple to rest Jiraiya's shoulder without comment or disgust from _either_ of them and currently _still_ allowed the rest of his body to curl towards Jiraiya's, it was unthinkable. It was reviling.

"Unless you were afraid for me."

Jiraiya blanched. Then he sputtered, blustered, and finally shook Orochimaru off with an angry snarl and stormed out of the room, spitting, "_Bitch_," over his shoulder before slamming the door.

Sarutobi-sensei's own bedroom door was kicked open. Sarutobi-sensei was confronted, wrestled, pushed to the floor, until eventually an uneasy compromise was reached, in which Sarutobi-sensei_ still_ lost, as Jiraiya stole almost all of the blankets and kicked and slapped absently in his sleep until finally Sarutobi-sensei moved to sleep on the floor of his own accord.

Orochimaru curled his hands around his thin arms. Underneath the grease, wheels turned.


	6. Space

**Space**  
PG  
Imagery/tone heavy, Jiraiya-centric with a side of Tsunade, 1,600 words. Standard disclaimer applies. I was going for a peaceful, warm feeling with this--I really like how this one came out, it felt nice.

**Space**

There are silent sounds, which are different from other sounds. Many sounds are noise-sounds; big, blaring chittering things, that fog up the ears and lay on the brain like an egg on rock. The other sounds, the silent sounds, are sounds only heard in the silence; sounds to small, so very _thin_, that aren't really sounds at all--they are levels for measuring the silence.

The breeze washing over the tall grass is one, a gentle hollow tiny sound. Leaves bumping against one another in the high tree, several feet above ones head, makes a small, forlorn sound, a sound so lonely and timid it won't be heard in anything less than very quiet silence.

Jiraiya relaxed by careful, deliberately imposed degrees as he walked down the dirt path, his geta sandals scratching shocked orange lines over the tranquil quiet as he crossed the tiny ravines and mesas caused by last winter's rains, disturbing the sand.

Grass with seed husks like corn flanked him on either side, coming up to his thighs. Blue bottle flies buzzed like miniature chainsaws among the flowers, the common slightly-smelly slightly-ugly yellow ones. Willow leaves hung like a woman's hair near the path, never really in the way.

The path didn't lead anywhere; it blurred out on the drop of the canyon, reappearing and disappearing in the weeds and sandy dirt. It was possible to reach a larger, wider path through it that would lead to a road that would lead to a small outpost where they made excellent roast pork, but the tiny dirt path, less than a foot wide, didn't lead anywhere important.

The view wasn't magnificent either; not the kind of view lovers rendevzous under or dramatic encounters occurred--there was the gradual drop, clumps of grass, patches of weed, the slightly-smelly yellow flowers spreading pollen and allergies throughout, interspersed with small white clover flowers and dark purple weed flowers.

No one else realized what was _possible_ here; only Jiraiya did. He took his jacket off as the sun warmed, then, feeling a bit adventurous and very secure, his over shirt, staying in his loose slacks and undershirt. His hair glinted in the sun. The silence greeted him like a wife greeting a too-long gone husband.

He was alone. Jiraiya relaxed.

It would be hours before Sarutobi-sensei got through searching for him in all the bath houses, bars, dirty book shops, liquor stores, resturants, and whore houses. He'd be back before then. Their missions were placed too close together--they'd only returned from the last one that morning and already they had to leave again at lunch. He'd be back before nightfall, before Sarutobi-sensei started twitching at the eyes. He'd be back. Eventually. Before they sent the hunter-nins after him, he'd be back. Just...not right then.

He didn't sit down. This wasn't the type of place you sat in, like a church or home. You came, you listened, you watched, and then you left. Sitting would imply too much familiarity, too much possessiveness.

Jiraiya looked at the sky--really _looked_ at the sky--in what felt like _months_. It was still too loud for him to hear his heart beating, for him to hear his own breathing, but it was getting quieter, deep inside his head, little by little.

The noise was going away--the dark noise, the sleek rush of metal, the wet splash of flesh and blood, the lightening-static of screams--was going away. Little by little, it was going away.

Time passed. His legs didn't even ache from standing, though he had to rub the sweat from the back of his neck; if he didn't like his hair so much, he'd cut it.

He didn't close his eyes. This place didn't put him to sleep. It did a lot of things, this unremarkable patch of space, silence, grass, and weeds, but it didn't put him to sleep.

He yawned, and turned around with a wry, relaxed smile.

"Thought I'd find you here," Tsunade remarked, arms crossed under her expansive chest. "Sarutobi-sensei isn't frothing at the mouth yet, but he was coming close before I left."

"Mmm?" Jiraiya asked with a loose, easy smile, walking along with her.

"He and Orochimaru were still going through the lady's bath-houses when I left. Go figure."

"Dunno why he bothers," Jiraiya murmured lazily, listening to the words and not the meaning. "He's gay, through and through. Show him a naked women and he doesn't even blush."

Tsunade rolled her eyes, but didn't stop the small smile that came. "That's why I'm able to stand both of you in the same room. He can chase after boys all he wants, as long as he stays away from my clothes."

"He'll be going after your make-up next."

"You're an idiot," Tsunade called him without any real rancor.

Jiraiya gave her a sidelong look. The next grin he gave was a good deal less innocent than the lazy one he'd been sporting. "How about you? How'd your, ah," Jiraiya cast about for the right words. "Welcome go?"

To his immense joy, she actually blushed. _And_ she didn't hit him! Tsunade threw a reproachful, amused look at him, and only said, "Fine."

"He miss you?"

"You're a pervert, Jiraiya."

"What's your point? What'd he say? Did he get you anything?"

"I forgot, none of your business, and yes he _did_, but I'm not going to tell you what so don't ask."

Feeling like he'd won a small victory, Jiraiya grinned. "I knew it."

"And I knew I'd find you here," Tsunade countered, carefully stepping over a tiny patch of some type of weed in the path. "It's...nice."

Coming from Tsunade, that was high praise. "In a woodsy, backwater type of way," she added, to keep standards from slipping.

Jiraiya shrugged, feeling a little defensive and defiant.

"I like it."

Tsunade nodded, and didn't press further.

The breeze touched the grass again, making the hollow, swishy green sound of silence. Jiraiya reached out and grazed his fingers over the willow leaf curtain.

Jiraiya always associated Tsunade with power. Any type of power: physical, mental, emotional, political, financial...Tsunade had power. She could beat him up on a daily basis worse than anyone else he'd ever known; they had fights on occassion that hadn't just got the whole team thrown out of the inn, but out of the town as well. Tsunade was smart, loud, often overbearing, arrogant, and powerful--more powerful than he was. That didn't make her _better_ than him, because he could be more flexible and pratical and got along with people better, but he didn't have her power. At some level, she was a threat. He did _trust _her, she was his teammate, so he trusted her with his life to some degree, but not with too much else. They weren't friends.

And, strangely, he didn't feel exposed. She'd found him, and he didn't feel hunted. Maybe his instincts were on the blink, he was too relaxed, and that was why he didn't _feel_ in trouble, or maybe it was because, underneath all that muscle and high-born arrogance, there was something in Tsunade that was soft, besides her breasts.

Jiraiya looked at the sky again, and this time it was like seeing an old friend.

"It doesn't make me feel tired. Or like going to sleep. It feels like I've woken up, when I come here."

Tsunade nodded, the silence comfortable. She didn't ask what he was waking up from; she knew without asking.

They walked out of the clearing, the dark overhangs of the forest looming in front of them.

"If I ever meet a woman who can make me feel like this," Jiraiya said quietly. "I'm going to marry her."

Tsunade gave him a surprised glance; Jiraiya never spoke of wanting a family, or a girlfriend--he kept on trying to sneak into the brothels despite all of Sarutobi-sensei's efforts, pleading that the women there were very clean and nice and polite and that he didn't want to die a _virgin_--it was too humiliating! Only _losers_ died virgins--he _needed_ to go in, just for an hour or so! Less than an hour even! They wouldn't even notice he was missing, he'd be that fast!

But he never mentioned wanting a family, or made an effort to find a girl his own age he could relate with, of finding a romantic interest. He drove them all _mad _looking for a sexual interest or outlet, even one for a few _minutes_, but not a romantic one, never a romantic one. He couldn't picture shouldering the responsibility, of kissing someone who knew his name. That was…disgusting. And not funny. Not funny at all. He was uncharacteristically chilly about it, reserved, and not even Sarutobi-sensei pressed him about it.

The way Jiraiya talked, sometimes, you'd think he expected to die any day. It was true that he could; that they all could, and all _might_, but Jiraiya seemed okay with it.

Tsunade smiled, and it was a shame Jiraiya didn't see it. She ducked her head, making sure he didn't.

"I feel sorry for her already," she said dryly.

"I'm going to give your boyfriend all your dirty books."

"I don't have any dirty books," Tsunade interjected.

"Doesn't mean I can't give him some," Jiraiya grinned, ready to duck at any second. "And say you read them at night thinking about him."

Tsunade, however, only sighed and shook her head.

He slipped his jacket on as they passed into the gloom, humming in his throat the last song he heard. Tsunade gave him another surprised look, and he _still_ missed her smile before she started singing the words.


End file.
